


keep a tender distance so we'll both be free

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is very caring, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley tries to cope with drinking and clubbing, Crowley's Mustache, Disco Crowley, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, important talks are had, the hurt is the mild part there's a good amount of comfort, the rating is for some suggestive thoughts on Crowley's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24705265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: It hasn’t been that long since 1967, only a handful of years, compared to when centuries would pass without so much as a glimpse of each other. But as the world had grown and filled, it felt like the increasing density pushed them closer and closer.And something about having that promise hanging between them, a hope for a future, a someday, made Crowley crave the angel’s presence even more, even as he had carefully backed away. Careful steps, deliberate and conscious as always, Crowley had retreated, thrown himself into the nightlife of the 70s, and gotten lost in clubs and bars, trying to fill that longing, and chasing neon lights. But Aziraphale had found him again tonight, and he wasn’t even near Soho this time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 100
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	keep a tender distance so we'll both be free

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was born entirely out of my desire for more Tony content, so there's that

Somewhere between bright lights and loud music, Crowley slips towards the bar. He is in some club, the name already forgotten, getting lost on purpose. The volume is near deafening, the technicolor lights blinding, a sea of bodies making it hard to navigate, everything smells like sweat and liquor, and he knocks enough alcohol back to make it all blur together. Sound, sight, smell, touch, taste. They muddle together, fade and warp. Crowley thinks he might be trying to drown. 

Less than ten years had passed since he had last seen Aziraphale, and the bittersweet taste of  _ ‘perhaps someday… _ ’ still lingers. Those watery eyes, that wavering smile, hesitation and hurt and a dam between them, cracking.  _ Too much too much too much _ . Crowley pours another drink down his throat, ignores when it spills and drips down his face, thinks about water. He thinks about rain, about floods and tears, and miraculously parting seas. Rivers, oceans, lakes; wide expanses and how to cross them. Separation. Drowning. Crowley puts the now empty glass down, stares at the bottles lining the wall, and thinks about thermoses.

There is a long and expansive history between him and Aziraphale, stretching out from that wall of Eden, not just in a forward line, but spiraling out like waves. Humanity had grown, survived, and overcome and made their brief little lives so very full, and they had both born witness from the beginning. Humans progressed quickly, societies forming and falling and new ones taking their place in the blink of an eye. Crowley admired that about humans, the way they threw themselves forward. He had watched Adam and Eve reach for each other as they made their way into the world. Crowley wondered, even then, what might happen if he had reached for Aziraphale's hand like that; a seeker of knowledge and a protector with the flaming sword. 

Instead, he kept his hands to himself and Aziraphale did as well, but as the first storm broke, there had been a wing over his head that kept him safe and dry. There were miles and millennia and the churning waters of their history between that day and the bar Crowley now sat in, alone and drunk and melancholy. He and Aziraphale were still keeping their hands to themselves, though the urge to reach out had only gotten stronger and sharper. Crowley ached with desire, had seen more storms brewing, tried to build up supports, and only eroded the shore. But then that wing reached out again, wanting to keep him safe and dry, now wrapped in tartan and a tightly secured lid. After all this time, Aziraphale had finally drifted closer, and yet Crowley was aching more than ever. He curses and orders another drink.

Crowley eventually slinks to his feet, wanting to avoid the increasingly pitying looks the bartender is giving him. He knows it's probably obvious he's drowning his sorrows, maybe that he's drowning in general. Aziraphale and his stupid kindness, his worry, his promise of someday; it's all water in his lungs. He weaves himself through the crowd, not sure where he's going, but just wanting to move, restless and yearning. 

There's a bump of another body, some kind of jostling Crowley is too drunk to really register, and he mumbles what might be an apology and tries to keep moving. Then there's someone in his face, raised voice and waving hands, something about bothering their girl, even more gone than Crowley. Crowley wrinkles his nose, not in the mindset or mood to deal with this in the slightest, and knowing the other patron is likely deaf to reason at this point, he goes to walk away. 

And suddenly Crowley is hitting the floor, face stinging and reeling from the sudden sobering shock of getting punched square in the face. The ground is sticky and uneven and hard and it takes him a second to regain his bearings. He pushes himself onto his elbows, braced for more of a fight, and looks up.

His jaw drops. The silhouette is unmistakable anywhere, and in the flashing lights of the club, the cream coat looks almost technicolor. Aziraphale is standing over him, the Guardian of the East Gate between Crowley and his attacker. Aziraphale's stance is deceptively casual, but his voice has a thread of cold Divine Authority to it as he tells the drunken patron off. They take their party and bolt, rightfully so, and the rest of the crowd seems to vanish with them, until it's just Aziraphale and Crowley in this dim corner, alone. 

Aziraphale turns to face Crowley, still sprawled on the floor, and it's been years since they've seen each other, a chasm between them built on differing speeds and backup plans. Crowley remembers well the way Aziraphale had looked at him that night, lit by the glaring colored lights of the Soho street; something like heartbreak and hope as he handed over a thermos of holy water. And now he stands before Crowley, once more bathed in garish neon, blurred at the edges like an impressionist painting.

But his face is very different now, something calmer and more settled in the lines, an easy sort of warmth in his eyes. Crowley finds it hard to breathe all of sudden, and there's a pounding in his chest rising to match the pounding in his head.

Aziraphale crouches down, lowers himself to Crowley's level; there’s something poetic in an angel sinking to a demon’s level. Aziraphale is reaching one hand out, not quite touching Crowley's face, but hovering close enough to send an electric sort of crackling over Crowley's skin. The angel's brows furrow in concern. 

“Are you alright?”

Crowley has to remind himself how to speak, to draw air in, to move his jaw and form words, because Aziraphale always robs him of such abilities without trying, and he is viscerally reminded of how much he's missed him since 1967.

Aziraphale's sudden appearance in this random bar, where Crowley just so happened to be, leaves him off-kilter and unbalanced like he's suddenly been pushed onto ice. He's staring at Aziraphale's face, remembering when he slid into the Bentley and found Aziraphale there. Such a shock, to get Aziraphale changing his mind (not for heaven, not for himself, but for  _ Crowley _ and no other reason), one that left him reeling and unable to hide. Wrenched open and laid bare. This is something similar, except...no, not at all.

The shock is the same, Crowley thinks, feeling just as torn open, but there's no sadness to Aziraphale's smile, no fear in the corner of his eyes. Instead of reaching out with a thermos heavier than it has any right to be, he's reaching out, cradling Crowley's face and frowning at the rapidly forming bruise.

Aziraphale's thumb brushes just under the edge of the beginnings of a black eye, feather-light and searing. It feels like a benediction. It feels like a burn. Aziraphale is eyeing him expectantly though, raising an eyebrow, and Crowley gets his brain working enough to remember that Aziraphale had asked him a question. 

“Nnnn, fine. S'nothing angel.”

The other eyebrow rises up as Aziraphale gives him a disbelieving look. 

“Of course, dear,” he murmurs, “but that floor can't be comfortable, so let's-”

And he cuts himself off by rising gracefully to his feet, nearly giving Crowley heart failure by pulling him up with him with barely a shred of effort. Crowley splutters. 

“Aziraphale! A little warning next time?” 

He huffs loudly to cover the way the motion caused a swooping sensation in his chest, the abrupt reminder of how strong Aziraphale was.

“Terribly sorry, dear.” 

But there's a smile in the corner of his mouth, and Crowley wants to pout. He also wants to kiss that smile away, but he shoves that thought very far in the back of his mind, where he'll only be able to reach it in the depths of long dark nights when he's alone. Crowley narrows his eyes instead because glaring is more dignified than pouting and more appropriate than kissing, but the motion very quickly informs him of how much getting punched in the face actually hurts.

Whatever clever retort he might have had dies on his tongue, replaced by cursing, as one hand comes up to clutch at his face. Immediately, Aziraphale is all concern and fussing, and Crowley tries to brush him off, but he finds himself herded into the restroom anyway.

There are a million thoughts flying around Crowley's head, and he can hardly think beyond them. Aziraphale closes the door, locks it, and they're alone in here, this dirty small space, this quiet and private bubble in the back of a club. Crowley has imagined a scenario like this before, where they duck away together, tipsy and wanting. He has imagined Aziraphale's hands on him, pinning him to the door, the wall, the stall. His stupid powerful imagination, his foolish hungry heart, have both worked together to give him dreams of Aziraphale, messy and wild and rough. He knew he had wanted that, that kind of love from the angel, but he had denied himself even the indulgence of fantasy when it came to something like...this. Aziraphale's hands are careful where they land, handling Crowley like he's precious and valuable. Crowley had dreamed of teeth and nails and the terrible violent clashing of their unspoken mutual desire unrestrained. Aziraphale is giving him the soft barrier around that instead.

There's a touch of hesitation in Aziraphale's movements, even as he tilts Crowley's head to better catch the light, to see the extent of the damage. Crowley has thought of Aziraphale grabbing hold like this before, but it was not at all like this gentleness cupped in Aziraphale’s hands. Crowley can feel Aziraphale soothing the ache, the pain in his face fading until it vanishes completely, and he doesn't know what to do.

Crowley wants to hurt and bruise and bleed beneath Aziraphale's hands, let the angel wring him out and leave him undone. It's what he deserves, isn't it? A demon from the pits of hell, chasing an angel. Maybe the pain can be repentance. He would gladly burn for Aziraphale, would hand the angel the match to light him, but this is something else entirely, so beyond what Crowley had ever let himself imagine. He dreamed of pain folding into pleasure. He did not dream of tenderness and care.

While Crowley's mind is a hurricane of thoughts and feelings and incoherence, Aziraphale has been steady hands and an earnest face, carefully tending to Crowley and cleaning him up. He must be able to see the way Crowley is mentally stacking bricks of thoughts into a tower that's about to fall, but he's politely ignoring it while he works. It's only when he finishes with a miracle to fix Crowley's glasses, cracked from the punch to the face, that he straightens and stops to simply look at Crowley. They aren't touching now, but there's something so painfully intimate in the few inches of space between them, in the quiet that sits in this restroom.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, soft, and the quiet shifts but doesn’t break. “It’s certainly been a while.” 

There's no accusation there, though there could be because Crowley was the one who usually took the initiative. That was his job, to tempt and cajole and invite, and he had backed off significantly. But there had been an understanding between them, as Aziraphale slid out the Bentley, that they'd reach the eventual end point of the Arrangement's steady inward spiral. One day it would twist into its center and Aziraphale and Crowley could finally stand together as they should. Inevitable. Ineffable. But not yet, and probably not now.

Crowley inhales deeply, trying to yank his frenzied mind into some kind of order. It's loud and buzzing in his head now, rising like a fever pitch, and he wonders if he's going to explode in a minute. Then, a hand rests on his knee. The touch is light but deliberate and all of the chaos of his mind abruptly turns to white noise. Crowley swallows and finds his voice. 

“It has.” he mutters, “You been alright?”

“Oh yes, everything hunky-dory.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow.

“‘Hunky-dory?’ Really, angel? That sounds ridiculous.” 

It’s light and teasing and familiar, a rhythm they both find instantly, dancers rejoining the dance. The corners of Aziraphale's mouth twitch upwards and there's a teasing sort of tilt to his head.

“Funny you should call anything ridiculous with that thing on your face.” 

Crowley gapes. Then huffs in offense that's only halfway genuine. 

“Oi! It’s the style nowadays.” 

Crowley puffs up a little, straightening where he still sits on the sinks and trying not to get distracted. Aziraphale is still standing close, close enough that Crowley can see the mix of color in his eyes and how they crinkle with mirth at his defensiveness. Crowley's heart flutters. 

“I wouldn’t know, dear.” 

“No,” Crowley mutters. “No I guess you wouldn’t.” 

Because even now, Aziraphale is so very unchanging, a steady and stalwart presence, like the guard he used to be. Stubborn and comfortable where he was, behind on fashion and trends and technology. Slow and hesitant and not ready for everything Crowley was eager to give him.

It hasn’t been that long since 1967, only a handful of years, compared to when centuries would pass without so much as a glimpse of each other. But as the world had grown and filled, it felt like the increasing density pushed them closer and closer. 

And something about having that promise hanging between them, a hope for a future, a someday, made Crowley crave the angel’s presence even more, even as he had carefully backed away. Careful steps, deliberate and conscious as always, Crowley had retreated, thrown himself into the nightlife of the 70s, and gotten lost in clubs and bars, trying to fill that longing, and chasing neon lights. But Aziraphale had found him again tonight, and he wasn’t even near Soho this time. 

Aziraphale is still so very close, and there's still the weight of one hand resting on Crowley’s knee. It feels like a brand, searing into his skin and sinking down into the bone and marrow, lighting his blood on fire. He should pull away, but he won’t. His ability to pull away from Aziraphale was lost on the wall of Eden, a magnetic force that set Aziraphale as the draw of his compass, relentless and unerring for what he’s sure will be his entire existence. Crowley should pull away, but instead, he shifts his leg, presses into that heat more, and savors the burn. 

Aziraphale is watching him, and Crowley remembers the way the Bentley had cast hooded shadows across his face, the red through the windows, his trembling hands. The lights in this restroom are almost painfully bright white and the hand on his knee is steady, only reaffirming its hold when Crowley pushes closer. Pushes back. The heat of it crawls through Crowley's veins as hot as the stars he once forged in the sky.

And then, Aziraphale is stepping forward. Already close, the motion puts him between Crowley's legs where they’re hanging off the sink’s edge. With every inch subtracted between them, Crowley's spine straightens more and more, a reaction born from surprise that he can’t control. His eyes are wide, a flush seeping into his cheeks; he can’t remember ever being this close to the angel, regardless of how much he had wanted to be. Aziraphale is almost flush against him, eyes still trained on his face, and, carefully enough that Crowley could stop him, he leans forward and reaches up, wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck. 

Crowley freezes, not even breathing, heartbeat stuttering to a halt. Aziraphale is hugging him. 

Crowley can feel Aziraphale's breath ghost over his skin, shivers from it, and tries to process how Aziraphale is molding to him now, how they fit like puzzle pieces despite the awkward angle. Crowley tries to loosen his spine, one vertebra at a time, relax the muscles that seized up, kickstart his frozen mind. He wants his useless corporation to do  _ something _ other than just sit there like an idiot, wide-eyed and heart pounding.

It's not like they haven't touched before, not like they haven't run through the gamut of history's ways of greeting each other, of farewells and polite gestures, all etiquette and formality. Handshakes and hand clasps, a brief kiss to the cheek, arm in arm, or shoulders pressed close; things that were standard, things they could excuse. This is something else, something deliberate that steals the air from Crowley's lungs.

This is closeness, intimacy, meaningful. This is intent. Contact for the sake of...being in contact. Aziraphale has tucked his face into the crook of Crowley's neck. Aziraphale isn't pulling away. Aziraphale is holding tight to Crowley like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, content to stand there as long as Crowley wasn't pushing him away. Slowly, warily, terrified that one wrong move could make this shatter like an illusion, Crowley brings his own arms up, curls around Aziraphale's back, settles shaking hands on those broad shoulders. Aziraphale doesn't move. Crowley carefully catches his breath.

Aziraphale only shifts when Crowley's breaths suddenly go shaky, like each one is struggling to find release. Crowley has no idea what does it in the end, what straw broke the camel's back, he'll blame the alcohol later, but suddenly it's all so very overwhelming. He's a demon, a resident of hell, one of the damned, the Fallen. Pain and suffering are his due, and he's used to the particular brand of misery that clings to his kind, has learned to ignore it. Aziraphale's presence has always acted as a buffer of sorts, chasing the shadows away with just his smile, and ever since Eden, Crowley has been quietly grasping after that relief. And he's gotten it, plenty of times he's found peace in shared meals and time spent together, stolen moments and secret meetings. There is solace to be had in simply having Aziraphale's eyes on him. It was enough. Crowley wanted more, but it was enough, and it had gotten them to a point of understanding, a mutual acknowledgement, a vow to the future. He could see the floodwaters Aziraphale was holding back, and he understood. That's where Crowley had thought it would stay for some time, was ready and willing to wait, because it was enough. But not even a decade later and here they were. Apparently Aziraphale had settled his own storm fairly quickly, and had decided to tackle Crowley's next. Aziraphale is strong and solid against him, real and caring and here, just when Crowley had needed him. He was here. He was  _ here _ -

Crowley's hands clench tight in Aziraphale's coat, his shoulders hunch, and his breath fully hitches, not just shaking. There is a terrible trembling in his chest; his ribcage feels far too tight, like the raw and aching core of him will burst out of it at any minute. Aziraphale is moving before Crowley can register it, before he can open his mouth and shout, ask, beg him not to leave, but he doesn't pull away, only straightens. Gentle hands are cupping his face again, and they catch the tears Crowley can't stop from spilling over, the ones he hadn't even noticed forming. Aziraphale wipes them away and doesn't say a word, doesn’t judge.

It is not a dam breaking open, nothing so dramatic, but it's still some kind of release. Crowley’s face crumples and he leans into Aziraphale’s hold, trusts that the angel will keep him aloft, and simply lets go. There are tears, but it's quiet and gentle and calm, more relief than any kind of hurt, and Aziraphale holds him through it. Crowley ducks his head, as much as he can with Aziraphale still cradling his jaw, and stares down between them, at how close they’re standing. Aziraphale’s hands shift, one curling around the back of his neck, the other sliding into his hair to slowly card through the strands. There's a beat, and then there's a kiss being pressed to the top of his head. Crowley chokes, and the last gathering of tears spills over, and he’s finally,  _ finally _ feeling something like peace. 

Eventually, they move. Once Crowley feels a little more stable and remembers that they’re still in the bathroom of some bar, he moves. He unfolds himself, sniffling, clears his throat, and Aziraphale is still standing between his legs, still holding on; an anchor point. Aziraphale has never once in their long friendship judged him, not for anything like this, and he’s seen Crowley in a variety of messy states over the years, watching disasters and tragedies and the cruelties humans enacted on each other. Aziraphale might fuss and argue and deflect or parrot whatever heavenly nonsense he’s been told, but his eyes have always been soft when they look at Crowley, and they’re almost softer now, if such a thing is possible.

Part of Crowley wants to apologize or make an excuse, maybe brush his little episode off with a cool and flippant attitude. There have always been too many thoughts racing, too much at war in his mind. Crowley thinks he will never have the words to articulate all these feelings that sit inside him, a stormy sea centered on Aziraphale, deep and powerful, but as Aziraphale hands him a handkerchief, braces him as he slides off the sinks, helps him put himself back together, he thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to. Aziraphale is smart, after all, and Crowley can see in his face that he understands, like he always does. They don't need words, so Crowley doesn’t bother. He won't try and lessen this, he can give himself this much.

They leave the bar, slipping unnoticed through the crowd still enjoying themselves. Crowley feels a twinge of deja vu, from earlier in the night, seeing flashes of the way he had moved through this room, surrounded by people and feeling desperately lonely. But now, he's following the bright beacon of Aziraphale's hair, the angel looking so out of place here but so utterly comfortable with his hand linked with Crowley's. ' _ This is right _ ' he thinks, as they dodge around a couple snogging in the walkway, this is right, that Aziraphale found him, is now leading him out. He thinks of storms and rain and water, of wings and tartan and soft hands in his. He tries not to think about Adam reaching for Eve, the first humans stepping into the rest of their lives together, as he and Aziraphale finally exit to the street. They stand there on the sidewalk, in the cool night air, looking like any other couple walking out of a bar. Not too fast, then. 

Crowley breathes deep into the calm he's found, fortified.

"How did you find me?"

They've always been able to find each other if they really focused; occult and ethereal senses granting them the ability to naturally pinpoint their hereditary enemy, but it wasn't something they used often. Besides, that's not all Crowley is asking anyway. How did Aziraphale find him, yes, but also what made Aziraphale seek him out, now of all times, when the last time they had seen each other had been so bittersweet. Crowley had assumed it would be a lot longer than a few years before the angel sought his company. 

Aziraphale turns his head from the street where he had been staring, unfocused. He’s not quite smiling, but the corners of his mouth are turned upwards. Crowley gets the feeling he’s been doing a lot of thinking in their time apart, though maybe he’s just projecting. Aziraphale’s words have been circling his head on repeat since he heard them, like a particularly depressing disco ball. There’s a faint pressure on his hand, brief but meant, and Aziraphale meets his eyes.

“I wanted to.”

And he’s answering so much with just three words. How? Because he wanted to. Why? Because he wanted to. Crowley had been prepared to stop altogether until Aziraphale was ready, but maybe he won’t have to slow down as much as he thought.

They end up back at the bookshop, though Crowley isn't entirely sure how. He hadn't driven to the club in the first place, so at least he’s not leaving the Bentley somewhere, but he thinks maybe Aziraphale is far too distracting. Crowley hadn’t even noticed shifting through space in focusing on the angel. Staring at him, re-mapping the lines of his face and cross-referencing the Aziraphale that lived in his mind, a continually updating image he had had since the beginning of their friendship. He always checked it when they spent time apart, eager to see the little changes, the shifts in topography that only he would notice. They were proof of their life among humans, marking an experience only they shared, and Crowley coveted them because Aziraphale was beautiful in his little variations. Even now, blinking in surprise to find himself among familiar bookshelves without noticing how he got there, Crowley is thinking about change. 

Aziraphale bustles about like usual, the familiarity easing something in Crowley’s spine, and he sinks into the well-worn couch, quietly pleased to see it’s still molded to his shape. It is almost exactly the same in the shop, dust thick on the shelves, stacks of books in the same places Crowley remembers. It really hasn’t been that long at all, but the shift in this nameless thing between them was a far bigger step than anything previous, and the time spent away ached near tenfold more than usual. The bookshop feels like it's welcoming him back, cozy and cluttered with the spaces he had carved out for himself still waiting. Aziraphale has always felt like home, and he’s certainly never denied Crowley entrance, but now it feels like the doors have been flung open and Aziraphale is loudly calling him inside.

Crowley finds that it's easy to recall how to relax here, as much as they’ve ever allowed themselves to relax, all things considered. The shop is a winding maze of books and furniture and objects, barely arranged to be maneuverable, like the haphazard placement could deter any intruders before they reach the private shelter of the backroom. This little corner of domesticity is a safe space carved out by Aziraphale, sacred, not to heaven, but to them. Crowley does not take that lightly. 

Gold eyes watch unblinkingly as Aziraphale sweeps back into the room with a wine bottle and glasses in hand, a familiar old routine. Crowley shifts on the cushions, takes the glass Aziraphale offers him, lets their fingers brush before they separate. He draws in a mouthful, savoring the taste, only to nearly spit it back out when Aziraphale swings completely off the usual course and settles beside him. This is new, this is very new, because Aziraphale has always sat opposite Crowley, in his chair, safely maintaining distance while still sharing space. Like standing on two turntables spinning in opposite directions, occasionally meeting but never allowed to stay. Aziraphale brought his to a shuddering halt with the holy water, turning its direction while Crowley wasn’t looking. He’s close enough to touch and it makes something in Crowley both tighten and expand.

Crowley can feel the significance of the moment, of everything that happened earlier. He knows that something has changed in Aziraphale, churned and spun and settled. He had made his peace long ago with where he could see they were headed, accepted that the waters he sailed would never lead anywhere except Aziraphale, and it seems Aziraphale was setting course in much the same way. It didn’t matter the time it took, that it had been centuries, millennia even, for Crowley to know his own heart’s desire before Aziraphale because that wasn’t the point. Heaven was as insidious as Hell, in some ways even worse, and he would never be upset that Aziraphale was still tangled in their grip. Crowley does not know when the shift happened, could not begin to guess, but he does know this is something they should actually talk about. 

There are several ways this could go, whatever is progressing between them. They are at a crossroads, a precipice, a doorway. Crowley doesn't want to go into this blind, talking around truths and shoving down feelings. He needs to know for sure and Aziraphale does too, if they want to do this right, if they want to stay alive. When Crowley sits up from his sprawl and puts his wine glass down, Aziraphale watches him knowingly, waits, like always, as Crowley makes the first move.

“Aziraphale,” he starts, and his voice is too quiet, too rough. He clears his throat, tries again.

“Aziraphale, I need to- we need to-,” he stops, tries to settle his thoughts, and he’ll start again, as many times as he needs to, because this is important and he knows Aziraphale will wait for him. He breathes deep and cuts straight to the heart of the matter. 

“Aziraphale, where are we going?” 

There is a heavy pause in the air, and then-

“I am hoping,” Aziraphale says carefully, stretching out the last word, “to the same place.”

Crowley swallows hard, reins himself in. He will not jump ahead of this.  _ Not too fast, not too fast. _

“And where’s that?”

Aziraphale is silent, and his gaze is like a flood bearing down. He shifts closer until his knee is pressed into Crowley’s thigh, until heat is radiating between them. The waters rise and Crowley holds his breath. Aziraphale reaches one hand out, lays it flat on Crowley’s chest directly over his heart, his other hand over his own, mirroring the action.

“Here.” Aziraphale says. “I hope we’re going here.”

And that’s everything, really. 

They end up side-by-side on the couch, a line of contact from shoulder to ankle, leaning back into the cushions and unwilling to be apart after the whole night. The bottle of wine has been consumed and replaced once or twice or maybe more, and the evening sits hazy and light. Aziraphale’s head rests on Crowley’s shoulder, face tucked into his neck, and the edges of Crowley’s mustache brush his cheek. Aziraphale’s hand hovers in the air for a moment, then strokes a feather-light touch to the hair. Crowley shivers, and he can feel Aziraphale’s small answering smile.

"The mustache is nice, I like it."

"Really? You called it ridiculous earlier."

"It is ridiculous. But I like it all the same."

“Do you?”

Aziraphale is so close now, and his hand has dropped to Crowley’s knee. He moves his head, uncurls a little from Crowley, and Crowley barely has time to mourn the loss before Aziraphale is right there. He’s close enough that Crowley can see where the colors shift in his irises, and Aziraphale’s breath ghosts over his lips.

“Yes.”

Aziraphale says, and leans in and kisses him. 

This is, Crowley thinks, entirely worth the wait. This is as far as they can go right now, but he’ll wait another six thousand years for anything more if he has to. It is a heady feeling, to know you’re wanted in every possible way, to be able to taste it like this, freely given. He could subsist on the feeling alone, even if they never went all the way, and he sinks into Aziraphale at the thought.

Aziraphale kisses him hungrily, and Crowley realizes they’ve both been craving this. He kisses back like a drowning man who’s found a lifesaver, and they crash together like cymbals, jarring in the stillness. Eventually, they calm, ebb into something easier, just the gentle press of lips, until they’re both simply laying together. Crowley finds himself stretched out on his side, head in Aziraphale’s lap and fingers carding through his hair. He’s lost his shoes at some point, and a blanket has made an appearance. He makes an obligatory grumbling, about being a demon, about not being soft, and Aziraphale lightly tweaks his mustache, smiling teasingly until Crowley subsists. The lamps go out and the night settles into the bookshop, surrounds the two of them like a cocoon, and Crowley closes his eyes. 

Crowley feels the two turntables moving beneath them, sees how Aziraphale has set himself closer, still not quite even, but getting there. Like the two hands on a clock, spinning round and round at different speeds, they would match up eventually, and Crowley would freeze time at that exact moment, suspend it just for them. Someday they would have everything together. Crowley drifts off, peaceful, warm, and cherished, holding tight to the promise of that someday.


End file.
